The Battle Of A Thousand Beating Hearts
by ASingleSplendidSong
Summary: 'These are the boys who have the far-off dreams of a world without poverty and ignorance, who rest their heads upon a goose feather pillow each night, but who awake in dreamland, sleeping on the open fields of the Republic of France.' The musings of the Friends of the ABC as they prepare to battle for a dawn of freedom and democracy.


_Bon soir, tout le monde. _

_Good evening, everyone. _

This is my first _Les Miserables_ fanfiction, and it holds no proper pairing. It is simply my take on the revolutionary students as they prepare to fight at the barricades. I have missed a few people out, such as Feuilly (the fan-maker) and Jean Prouvaire (the romantic), purely because I couldn't write as well for them as I could for these. I did take a few liberties with Grantaire, and I'm not too sure as to what he does in the actual novel as I haven't reached that part yet (I've only just met Fantine - yes, I'm reading the bloomin' long unabridged version) but if I were to imagine him in any capacity, it would be this one. The rest of the characters are fairly close to the original Victor Hugo moulds, though again, I have fleshed out a few of them. Joly is a medical student, and Combeferre is a philosopher (though I've a feeling he's also a medic); Courfeyrac is the most charismatic out of the lot, so I'd imagine he'd be a womaniser, not that the others aren't. :)

The novel for me is more about being a good person than it is about the romance. I do love me a good bit of romance from time to time, but in my present mindset, this novel is more focused on morals and how people can change, and about sacrifice and freedom. I have taken a few lines from the musical, by accident, but they fit rather well, so I'm keeping them in. I do love the musical, but I chose to base this more on the books; it just allows the words to flow more. Oh, by the way, the French I may use here, is actual French, not just made up words as I happen to speak it a little myself.

EDIT: Just realised my stupid computer changed 'Grantaire' to 'Grantiare' for some odd reason. No clue why. Anyway, just a quick change so it doesn't bother anyone. :)

Without further ado, I present 'The Battle Of A Thousand Beating Hearts.'

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Enjolras sits on a lonely pedestal, his noble profile gazing at the Parisian skyline, too high up for anyone to reach without falling down and being hurt, yet far enough for those around him to revere him, his inspiring speeches strike a chord on the pianoforte of their heartstrings, his demeanour beautiful and terrifying at the same time. His manner of speaking is animalistic with passion, but those who care to listen feel as though this man is a seraph of God, so handsome is his face, or even a demi-God, the son of fiery Ares and a beautiful young mortal. His eyes, eyes which seem to have invented the colour blue, blaze with a fury and a loyalty. The golden spun web of hair falls over his clear complexion as he pools over volumes of law and lore, searching for a way to create a republic, to liberate the people. His hands are ink stained hands of a scholar, a man who is more accustomed to books than he is to barricades, but if one were to touch those hands, one would feel some elevated bumps of hardened skin, where a gun usually rests; years of hunting in his father's grounds have made him a good marksman. Even his professors are in awe of him - his wild thoughts, his unabashed devotion to the woman he calls his mistress; his _Patria._He is both a lover and a fighter; he is the very embodiment of the revolution, the fire behind the barricades, the flame which never stops burning, the tongue that will never forget the imagined taste of freedom and the heart that never will stop beating.

Combeferre is a philosopher. He wonders about a thousand things between waking up and getting out of bed, between ordering a croissant at the patisserie and feeling the cool exchange of silver francs from his hand. Those seconds are precious, they are priceless, Combeferre realises, as anything can happen within a couple of seconds. Why, a man could die from a bullet in a few short seconds and suddenly the flame of his life is extinguished from red to black. The actions, though, are irrelevant, it is the ideas that prompt such actions which are worthy of thought. Another man could reach an epiphany, a moment of pure wonder as God places a hand upon his head and allow His divinity to seep into the body of the man. The idea of revolution is foolish, some say, but if there is one thing Combeferre never ponders upon since that fateful day he first became part of _Les Amis_ and his own epiphany struck like lightning, it is that this revolution is right and just and that his place is here with his brothers at the barricade, not of blood, but of soul.

Courfeyrac is a womaniser, charismatic to the extreme. He could charm his way into Medusa's bed if he cared to, not that he does. Most people think of him as a rich, pretty playboy, the one who glides through life on his father's money, but that is far from true. Spending so much time with those of the opposite gender have made him more susceptible to changes in a person's moods, lest he needs to make a quick getaway from a soon-to-be enraged lover. He notices the small things; the way a crowd may change and respond to a particular phrase Enjolras says, so that next time they will incorporate it into speeches more; the way a certain person may be staring too long and too hard at them in a café, they could be the King's men; the way certain members of the public nod in agreement more than others, they are the ones who will fight with them. Sometimes other people join them and Courfeyrac will know, within a few hours or so of just being beside them, whether they can be trusted – whether they genuinely care for the cause, whether they are just there for the action and glory, or whether they are, in fact, infiltrators. He is the mental strategist of _Les Amis_, the one who understands other people better than he does himself at times, but his hunches are never wrong and have saved the group from a tight spot more than once or twice. They are all thankful for his carefree presence, his constant enthusiasm and his hearty laughter.

Marius is the dreamer, his head constantly up in the clouds, his feet never quite landed on Earth. He dreams even as he is awake, of a lark's song calling to him to safety, her beauty a shining beacon of light. He wants to follow but he knows his place is here, with his comrades and brothers. He hopes that they will win the battle so that one day, he can propose to her as a free man. His demeanour, in contrast to that of Enjolras, welcomes people. A mass of curly hair sits atop a youthful and calm face, and green eyes - a calm invitation to confidence -are soft and gentle as they gaze into those around him. People can approach him in a way they cannot the others; despite his noble upbringing, he is no doubt a man of the people, his kindness shining through to give his last five francs to a young urchin girl who tricked him into thinking she could read. His compassion touches those around him, reminding his friends that though they are about to fight in a revolution where violence and rage are rampant, they do so for the people and for humanity and must do so with compassion, dignity and justice.

Grantaire is the drunk and the cynic, but little do they know he is also a musician. Paris, to him, is a symphony waiting to be written. Music flows in his soul as wine does to his mouth; when he is not completely passed out, he is busy dreaming up countless new melodies, a few hundred arias and a great symphony to celebrate their triumph. He is drawn to the stamp of the footsteps as they draw out an irregular beat; the low murmur of voices forming a constant drone; the sounds of the Seine flow like the caress of the strings; the chink of coins as they fall and exchange hands like a harpist, plucking an arpeggio; the clip-clop of horses' hooves on the stone ground of the streets as they make their way are like the gentle pinpricks of tuned percussion. The men, with their booming deep voices are the brass and the women, with their higher screeches and sighs, are the woodwind yet the lead melody of Enjolras and the rest of _Les Amis_, as they talk in antiphony – why, they are the soloists. They stand out to Grantaire in any crowd – even from two streets away, he can pick out the sound of Enjolras' voice as it rages to a host of people and wherever Enjolras is, they are sure to be there also, such is the depth of their devotion and loyalty. He himself cares little for the revolution itself, but is simply content to be part of the company and be inspired by the sound of Enjolras' speeches and the 'Hear, hear!' that always answers his words. Grantaire knows that they will not survive the ordeal, but his own life is of little importance – perhaps the most important thing, as Enjolras says, is making a stand and in his own mind, that means making sure the song of _Les Amis _continues to be sung as his hand flies across sheets of manuscript, his bottle laying forgotten.

Joly is the doctor, a man of medicine and morals. He shudders to think of the lives he must take tonight when everything he has ever lived for is to save the lives of the people, but he knows, deep down in his heart of hearts, that the lives lost tonight on both sides will be for a greater good, for the thousands of lives that will no longer live in the rule of an uncaring monarch. Yet his devotion to the Hippocratic Oath is undying, and Enjolras has granted him permission to spend more time treating the injured in the wine shop than fighting on the front lines. He knows he will not be able to save everyone and that scares him. He is so used to excelling, to doing everything right, that the thought of not being able to save everyone is a shock to him. Before this, Medicine had mainly been hours of laboratory work, of dissecting bodies, of sitting in stuffy lecture halls while _le prof _droned on and on. Suddenly, it's become very real and Joly feels as though he does not have enough knowledge or experience to save lives. This is no game he now plays, there is no room for error. But looking around at his brothers who stand alongside him, he gives each of them an unspoken promise – that he will do the very best he can to save them, that he will treat them with compassion and care, that he will heal them with his knowledge. It is an honour, he now realises, to be a doctor to his comrades and to be the one they entrust their lives to so dearly in their hours of need but the greatest honour lies in doing what is right and fighting for it, no matter what the price may be.

Gavroche is the street urchin, but he too shares these dreams of grandeur. He cannot read like these scholars can, he cannot write like they can, but he can dream like they do. He dreams of a world where his people will not be hungry, where the girls will not have to sell themselves on street corners, where the men will not be so abrupt and rude. He dreams of a time when smiles will greet him as he jauntily ambles down the streets of Saint Michel, the _cours des miracles_, hearing calls of his _garcons_ as they see him coming to greet them, a candy cane for each of them dangling from his own wrists. He dreams of a world with no more poverty, no more pangs of gnawing hunger and relishes the thought of the constant warmth of a fire in a real home. He dreams of a world where love is the driving force behind everything, not hate and fear. He dreams the same dreams as these men do, and when they look at him, his toothy smile and dirty attire, they see the reason for their fighting, so that a child may finally have a dream come true.

See them now, silhouettes at the barricades. See how the backdrop of fire and red is ever-changing but see how they do not. The inky darkness of their forms and so many others like them is constant; a monument, an altar, a sacrifice. These are the boys who have the far-off dreams of a world without poverty and ignorance, who rest their heads upon a goose feather pillow each night, but who awake in dreamland, sleeping on the open fields of the Republic of France. Here are the _men_ who stand before you, who have found themselves together in the dreamland and have paved a path to make it into reality. They are the ones who will fight for you, your freedom, for a brighter tomorrow. They are willing to die for you and your happiness.

Surely, you understand now your call to arms. Surely you see that the pitchfork you hold is now a trident, your hammer is now a spear, your butcher's knife now a sword? Surely now you understand the meaning of their plight - this is more than 'just' a game for rich young boys to play, this is more than 'just' a fight. This is so so much more than 'just' a rebellion. This is exaltation to freedom, to true patriotism, to a sun that will never set on the waters of the Seine, that will bless the rich and the poor just the same with her loving rays of equality and freedom. This is an answer to the prayers that mostly go unheard and uncared for, but now this is the time to right all the wrongs. Now is the time to remind ourselves of the true meaning of humanity – of love, compassion and friendship, of freedom, justice and equality.

So, now, won't you join them and fight in the battle of a thousand beating hearts?

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Well, there we are then. I hope you enjoyed this and please let me know your thoughts by reviewing, if you are so inclined.

_Au revoir, mes amis et merci pour votre temps, _

_Goodbye, my friends and thank you for your time, _

BlueRoseParamour


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